saw this tiktok on my fyp and i immediately thought of this post by @tashiduncandonaldson bc no one can convince that this scene wasn’t their version of foreplay
craving something with a stalker/obsessive reader who perchance doesn’t go outside, doesn’t go to Stanford but manages to show up everywhere on campus, perhaps with Art…perhaps…he catches them in his dorm inhaling his gross, sweaty boxers <333
you rarely leave your place, let alone are particularly enthralled tennis, but there was something so compelling about that mop of blonde curls and that pretty, boyish smile that kept popping up all over social media.
there was an erotic sort of dance to each of his movements on the court—his body tensing and shaking and sweating and beating with every swing of his racket and step of his feet. you became ensnared in his appeal. like a rabbit with its foot caught in a trap; you couldn’t really be blamed, could you? it was him who started it.
so you began slipping your way into the cracks of his life.
following people on social media that he followed, liking their posts, noting the places that he was tagged as being at and individuals he was tagged as associating with, journeying frequently to campus in hopes of catching sight of him.
one thing lead to another, the days went by, and you eventually had his schedule memorized. leaving his dorm by 9:30 AM for classes, lunch at the cafe on campus after his first lecture (usually with patrick zweig) (12:45 PM), more classes, training/practice with the college tennis team at the outdoor courts—only when it’s warm enough (otherwise he’ll go to the indoor ones), dinner at the dining hall, and then back to his place by 9:15 PM. it was easy to track him, he wasn’t necessarily super self-aware. he looked so pretty when he was blissfully strolling the sidewalks around town, tucking strands of his golden hair behind his ear like he was some shy teenage girl in a romcom. he was just so lovely..
so you used his schedule. you broke into his dorm when he was out for dinner and shoved your hands deep into his laundry basket. you ground your clothed arousal into the carpet, pulling out a pair of his boxers and shoving the crotch into your nose—inhaling his musk and the smell of something akin to a wet-dream. sticky and primal and dirty and clotted with sweetness. “fuck,” you’d murmured, resisting the urge to lick a stripe over the fabric, your other hand down the front of your bottoms, rubbing and pawing at your ache, “oh, art.. fucking god, you smell so—“
but it ended quicker than you’d have liked. it was only 8:34 PM when the jingling of his keys rang through your ears. you were supposed to have been allowed more time than only a few minutes to indulge your sick mind, but he came back early for unexplained reasons. there was nowhere for you to hide; no vacant closet, no elevated bed, nothing. he was inside before you even had time to pull the bunched underwear from your face and your fingers out from inside you.
the look on his face when he froze up in his own doorway was something so captivating—flushed cheeks and parted lips and wide eyes. his gaze fell to your hunched body on the floor and his briefs in your clutches. he swallowed around a broken yelp. bit down on the inside of his cheek as his chin wobbled.
and, truthfully, it might have been easier to get over him back then if he hadn’t obviously started to get hard the moment he processed what was going on. you’d watched the look of shock on his face morph into embarrassment as the front of his joggers twitched and shifted. it was like there was a swell of piercing cognitive dissonance rising in his gut, giving him an erection when he knew he should have been afraid or nervous—you weren’t sure what about the situation got him so suddenly worked up.
maybe he was just as sick as you, you’d thought back in that moment.
he’d proved it himself when he closed the door behind him, trapping you in there, when the natural response would have been to call campus security and berate you for your conduct. he’d closed the door, fell down to your level with buckling knees, and whispered one disturbingly perfect phrase:
the idea was inspired by ‘eyes wide shut’, but it has nothing to do with the actual plot of the movie. i guess i just needed to put my thoughts about this movie into something :) it’s messy, but i hope you’ll enjoy </3
m4f, mdni 18+
sex is the least exciting part of the process — that’s why sometimes it’s not as good as you thought it’d be, and expectations appear to be too high, so you stop waiting for it to happen — or, more precisely, you just stop trying. in fact, sex isn’t much different from photography — you can actually take a quick picture of something nice, and it will look good, but would it be meaningful itself? you can briefly capture a sunset on your way home, or you can go to the beach, and walk around with a camera in your hand, trying to catch every single movement of sun rays, every blinding glare of sunlight. you can also have a quick sex with someone who just needs to fuck, or you can meet the person who will take their time to kiss you until your body feels weightless, to touch you like you’re a blessing, a temple of immensity in a white crumpled shirt after lectures in your college.
well, you can afford good photography; that’s what you are being taught in college, but proper sex? it takes two to tango.
and you have something better than sex, actually — your imagination always takes you far away, and it’s even better than cigarettes and alcohol that all your classmates drink in huge quantities during your gatherings at someone's house at weekends; such unholy events, really. photography students always take their fun seriously — all-or-nothing kind of approach. last weeks drinking and hooking up with someone in master bedrooms and toilets with doors that don't close weren’t your priorities; you was seeking something else, distant anticipation of pleasure — silhouette of danny lyon in the crowded living room, that excites you for multiple reasons. so cool, so busy with his life, multiple photoshoots a week, always meeting those bikers; he’s quite older than all of your friends, but not too much — danny had already graduated from college, and now everyone sees him as an experienced guy that knows more than just a thing or two about photography — not like most of the guys you know, who carry a camera to show off to girls, that conveniently pretend that they’re actually interested in the bullshit they’re talking about, when in reality everyone just want to have sex.
were you much different from them? sure, you were nearly obsessed with danny’s works, but you weren’t sure what drew you more — his skills or the way his lips held the cigarette while his fingers were flipping through photographs or holding a fogged beer bottle; maybe it was a good thing that you were introduced to him on the pretext that you wanted to work with him — you should work with him, actually, your friend told him, and he smiled, looking up at you from his seat on the worn sofa, with his legs spread wide in blue jeans.
“i’ve seen your photos,” he said shortly, in such a lazy manner, as if he was too deep in his own head at the moment — when your friend spoke again, danny was clearly half-listening, rubbing his lower lip with the knuckle of his forefinger, then he hummed, as if he’d found answers to his unspoken questions, and the wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out.
the truth is, danny wanted everything you could offer him — in a professional sense, more or less. he appeared on the horizon shortly thereafter, smoking in the college parking lot; he waited for you, and you jumped on his bike without a second thought, wrapping your arms around his narrow waist, perfect for you to hold, while your chest was tightly pressed against his back, wrapped in a denim vest — and that’s how the process of constant anticipation began.
every week danny picks you up after your classes over and over again, knowing your schedule by heart, and you never know where you're gonna go this time — most of the times he just takes you to the vandals’ gatherings, because you’re very helpful, taking pictures while he’s interviewing them, and so very curious — too curious for your own good, actually, never missing your chance to ask him questions. such a good little student, he once called you, and it was enough to shut you up for a while with a tiny little smile on your lips, that mirrored his own — you spoke again only when he took you to the local diner and asked if you wanted milkshake.
but sometimes, he drove you around the outskirts of town, and you two spent hours there, dirtying your shoes while trying to catch the view from the most complementary angle, and danny always took his time towering over your figure from behind, almost touching your shoulder with his chin, while he was adjusting the position of your hands — his fingers wrapped around your wrists, sliding down to your delicate elbows and them up to your shoulders, pulling you by them to make you take a step back; you could swear that danny saw photography more intimately than sex, and that sometimes the process nearly took your breath away, immersing you in a state similar to the slow approach of orgasm; you only communicated by touch and small sounds of approval that were slipping from his lips. after that you usually share a cigarette and he drives you home.
“what were you thinking that night?” you asked one day, before wrapping your lips around the straw to take a sip of your soda — you needed to wash the fries you’d eaten down your throat to speak again. “when you first saw me. it was like you tried to remember something”
“it wasn’t the first time i saw you,” danny chuckled, and this pleasant hoarse sound was enough to make you cross your legs under the table. he wiped his fingers and tossed the crumpled napkin aside. “i’d seen pictures of you. that’s what i was thinking about”
sometimes you happened to be a model for your friends, sure; it’d never been a big deal for you. but was it for him? big enough to remember your face? to think about it when you were standing in front of him at this loud party, so excited to work with him?
“were they good?” you asked with feigned indifference.
“you were good,” his eyes locked with yours, and you could feel him crawling into your very soul through your irises. “but this friend of yours has two left hands”
he would do it better, of course he would — it was such a shameless provocation, such a clear offer of being his muse, as if he was silently asking “has anyone ever pictured you properly? have they seen you the way i can see you?” that it was almost embarrassing to be so eager for him, so willing to be on the other side of the camera, that you practically fidgeted in your seat, waiting for him to speak further — if he asked you to pose for him right at this moment, you’d agree without hesitation.
but of course he didn’t say anything. danny was edging you with his behavior, and he was visibly content with the way things were going between the two of you.
”finish your drink, pretty girl,” he reached for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, not even daring to take his eyes off you, reveling in the way you rolled your eyes at him — pretty girl, indeed, and such a gifted student, always up for every single one of his ideas. of course, you thought that you were something like an assistant for him, absorbing his words like a sponge, catching his every movement to engrave it on the inside of your eyelids; but in reality, you were born to be a muse - and he took you out of the hands of your amateur friends, that knew nothing about photography.
and he made sure to see you the way no one ever did before. danny captured you like a deer caught in the middle of dense woods, at times when you were getting distracted and couldn’t focus on your camera, because the bikers were getting too loud, and you could only stare at them with your doe-like eyes, hoping that these predators don’t bite. sometimes you were a graceful cheetah — a predator in its full glory, when your movements were slow and precise, because you had nothing to be afraid of; it was your territory, and you owned it with pure possession in the curve of your eyebrows and the sharpness of your jawline. so different when danny is the only one who could see you — always the only one who can be your rival, your mentor and the only object of your fantasies; your muse himself, in a way.
you’re smoking his cigarettes on the floor of his living room, when he walks out of the darkroom where he’s spent hours, leaving you to your own devices, which isn’t new for you — sometimes he lets you come to his apartment when he’s away, and you eat his food, watch his tv and fall asleep in his bed, knowing that when he comes back, he’ll lay on the cold side of the mattress, right next to you, but none of you’ll speak about it in the morning. now he tosses a fresh stack of photos on the coffee table, for you to see, for you to witness yourself in the frames of his photographs, while his figure was still bathed in red lights from the open door of his darkroom — as if he lets the worlds intertwine, while you’re looking at the results of his long work; your delicate fingers trace the corners of the pictures, and it can be compared with touching his bare skin under the fabric of his shirt, right where his heart was beating.
“do you like them?” danny stands in the doorway, leisurely wiping the lens of his camera with a clean cloth — he was doing it so thoroughly, as if he was polishing a rare gem; corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile, when he looks down at you — your patent shoes next to the sofa, your legs wrapped in the nylon of your red tights — you owned this place, just like you appropriated everything you ever touched.
”i was good, indeed,” you chuckle, nodding in approval, turning away to put out your cigarette on the edge of the glass ashtray. “or you just conveniently caught me in the act”
danny crouches in front of you, and you pull your knees up to your chest, but he catches them halfway with his hands — his thumbs gently circles your kneecaps, sliding easily over the fabric; danny wishes he could see the world with your eyes, to feel his own hands sliding down your calves, circling your delicate ankles to pull you closer to him, while you’re willingly bending your knees, almost pressing them against his chest — just like you’re doing right now.
“it’s like i can see you when you’re not watching me. really see you,” his arms are wrapped around your legs, and you could feel feather-like touches of his fingers on the backs of your thighs — your eyes intertwined in this fleeting moment, and your hands reach for his face to outline it with the pads of your soft fingers, because you’re thinking that you have every right to do it — and you’re so right about it. you appropriated him for yourself, too. “if i could, i’d picture you with your eyes shut. when nothing can disturb you” not even him.
you smile, a little bit mischievously — there’s no use closing your eyes, or turning away from him; you can feel his presence with every single bone in your body, feel his breath as if it were your own, because you’re smoking the same cigarettes and breathing the same air in the same rooms — does he think that you can stop feeling him around you? when it’s about danny lyon, you can see him even with your eyes wide shut.
when your eyelids drop, tickling your skin with the lush line of long lashes, danny is watching you like a rare work of art, an image of primal feminine beauty on the canva of your exceptional talent and passion for learning — and when his humid breath touches your parted lips, he can feel you kicking the air out of his lungs for the sake of catching it with your mouth; you hand slides down his neck, encircling his throat in a grip of a person that knows how to hold things that belongs to him — you’re pulling him closer, and he almost wants you to squeeze his throat tighter, so he could show you how much he’s devoted to you when you need it — his unruly muse, trying to tame him.
his hands grip your luscious thighs, making you spread them, so his touches could explode the most hidden parts of you underneath your skirt — it’s a sweet torture, knowing that your skin is soft and pliable underneath these tights, imagining your bare hips wrapped in underwear — he wants to guess the shape of your body without any clothes, the color of your panties, the way you’d slowly take your sweater off, revealing that you don’t wear your bra today — he’s so sure you don’t, because he can feel your nipples hardening under the woolen fabric, when his hands move to your breasts, just barely cupping them to show you that he’s here, that you’re so pretty that he wants to wait for you, to prolong this sweet anticipation. you pull him closer, spreading your thighs for him, so he can press his aching bulge in between your tantalizing legs — your hips are bucking, silently begging for this contact, even though it feels like if he presses harder, sparks will fly between your bodies, and you'll burn his apartment to the ground.
“don’t open your eyes,” he whispers, and you shake your head, because you want to see his face when he touches you — you want to ask him to touch you again, because you know that he’ll feel it through your tights — the dampness on the fabric of your panties. you can imagine him sneaking his hand inside, gathering the wetness with his fingers before easily pushing them inside — you want to know how it feels when he does it himself, because you’ve already tried to imagine him inside of you, when you were touching yourself in his bed.
danny catches your moan with his mouth, and it makes him whimper — it would be pathetic, if it wasn’t a sign of his aching desire for you. you catch these sounds with your tongue, pushing them down his throat again — this endless back and forth, exchanging words, sounds, wills, desires, while sharing the same taste of anticipation.
it’s all about anticipation, right?
when he pulls back, only to rest his forehead in the crook of your neck, you tilt your head back, feeling it hitting the floor — danny soothes the pain with the friction between your thighs. such a shame to come so soon, without even waiting for his fingers. “good girl,” he whispers in your ear “you’ve waited so long for me, right?”
sure, you know a lot about waiting. so it’s okay if you have to wait a little longer — because now you know his taste, and how it feels to have his hands on your body; plenty of material for your imagination — plenty of time to dream about him with your eyes wide shut.
Stanford!art cannot help but get hard when you both are in the cafeteria. Just friends, nothing more. But the way your lips wrap around the straw you are drinking your sweet cherry cola from.
He bets your lips taste just as sweet as that. Or maybe— feel sweeter on his cock too. The way you would stick your tongue out to seek the straw before guiding it to your mouth. Oh, he'll die in his seat.
Maybe he does get a chance to experience it. Both tipsy, at some frat party. When you giggle and make a joke that you can make him cum in just a minute and he denies, because he knows you'll want to prove him wrong.
He wants that.
The first touch of your tongue had him whimpering. Though he didn't let it out. His brows scrunched, lip bitten by his own teeth as he held the back of your head. Slowly pushing you down.
"oh— baby", he whispered. Hands gathering your hair as you almost pull off of his cock before sucking on the tip. Tracing the crown shape of it with your tongue.
That gets him to breathe heavy already, his eyes threatening to close, mouth hung open. One, two, three bob later, he's cumming.
Crying, whining, whatever you call it. That's his voice, "Eh— I'm cumming— shit. . Fuck— no— stop— wai—", he can't even speak before his hips push deeper into your mouth and releases his load.
You pull off to hear him breathe heavy as you look up at him. Popping the lollipop back in your mouth as you giggle, "told you—", he looked wrecked.
it had been 3 days since your last meal, and he was getting antsy unable to ignore the pain in his stomach or the growling of yours.
You always were too spineless to do the killing it’s not your fault you were new to this lifestyle, and he never holds it against you. Only positive thing about starving was your desperation. Sucking him off while he's driving, pulling him into gas station bathrooms to fuck you over the sink and grabbing the steering wheel forcing him to pull over and pummel his dick into you on the side of the road, you were relentless and he was exhausted. Art was blessed man though he never thought he'd meet someone as depraved as him
It's late at night when he spots her at the local amusement park stood next to the ferris wheel, cute thing was fresh faced out of high school all sunshine and excitement sometimes he felt bad for his victims most times he barely gave a damn too hungry to care.
He plays up his compliments as he flirts with her tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "you're beautiful you know, sweet as pie." He hides his sinister intentions behind a grin. She prattles on about her best friend, new puppy she got and shitty ex she has to deal with but he's fixated on her neck the expanse of her breasts, tits almost slipping out of her little dress, he wipes the drool off the corner of his lips when his eyes latch onto her throat, he could almost see the blood pulsing through her skin.
It pissed you off the way he was talking to her like he liked her, you knew the routine it was what he had to do but ripping her to pieces made the jealously subside.
So half an hour later you’re on him half naked completely bloody her limp body discarded next to his truck. Swapping spit as your hand leaves red handprints over his milky white chest body almost glowing in contrast.
“She tastes better than the other one” you moan against his open mouth.
“horny college students are always are the best.” He impatiently shimmies your shorts down your legs tearing your pink underwear in half with balled up fists
“they were my last pair” you glower at the unsalvageable pieces
“just use hers” he peers over wipes his hand over the bite he ripped out of her chest cavity lubricating his member with blood pumping it in his hand, he reaches out for more smearing your pussy with the rest
"So fucking tight" he moans as he stretches your cunt splitting you open. Your eyes clench shut at the abrasion "never get used to it." You wince hands digging into the dirt beneath him
he pecks your forehead as an apology before driving his cock into you at a brutal speed it's almost painful. He grabs your head and yanks it back watching your tits bounce leaning up and licking the slimy residue off your skin "I'm the luckiest guy in the world you know that?" He grunts "couldn't ever find a better fuck than you."
the sounds of his balls slapping against your soaked pussy radiate through the humid midnight air "so fucking close-" you whine tightening your walls around his dick
his fingers dig into your hips tearing the skin trying to stave off his orgasm "you're a fucking freak-" he slaps your ass "my favorite whore" he plants his feet on the ground pounding your swollen pussy as you cry out for more.
"Come in me" you drag your hands up tighten them around the column of his throat rolling your hips down his length. "Let me be yours."
"Fucking, shit" he gasps eyes roll back as he circles your clit with his thumb helping you chase your high, a blinding rush of pleasure runs through your body your juices coat his pelvis and thighs he continues rubbing your clit harder spurts of clear release spew on his abs until you slap his hand away.
You're dizzy almost collapsing when you begin riding him again "you need to cum" you whimper pussy throbbing from your orgasm. He shakes his head "not if it hurts you"
you shove your fingers into his mouth shutting him up. Wincing in discomfort as you bounce on his cock until ropes of cum spill into your pussy loud moans rip through his chest hips bucking until he finishes
A minute passes both of you trying to breathe when Art cups your cheek blue eyes searching for any hesitation, he only finds love.
“You good?" he asks, you nod
“promise?” He mumbles tracing your bottom lip
“yes”you heave collapsing onto his frame saccharine red remains dried up on your skin.
He grips your jaw shoves your face back and pries your mouth open with his tongue then spits down your throat, you groan as thick glob tastes sickly sweet like ice cream or chocolate cake a little more rotten.
He hums your favorite song tracing smiley faces on your belly with your release smeared watery red you shift to straddle him glimpsing down between your connected cores satisfied at the pink spunk spilling out of you coating his pubes. He reaches down cups it in his fingers and drips it inside his open mouth
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
dededos
germansingergirl
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
pixelskylines
ellievsbear
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
